hindenburg
by swishandflickwit
Summary: Because in an explosion of clarity, she realizes that without even looking, she's built a home here – has planted her feet and grown some roots, roots that have only strengthened with every connection she makes with her family, with every relationship she builds in this town and isn't that something? The lost girl isn't so lost after all. WARNING: mentions miscarriage and abortion.


**AN: WARNING! This fic mentions miscarriage and abortion. It's not graphic, they don't even say those words, but the characters talk about it and if that triggers you, please don't hesitate to close this fic. Take care of you first, ok?**

 **Also, thanks to my bestie captainwiley for all her encouraging comments! This fic would not be finished if it wasn't for her! 3**

* * *

She should tell him, she thinks, as her eyes find his lips.

He deserves to know and she's being unfair, no fuck that, she's being downright _cruel_ by keeping it from him.

So she's going to tell him, except–

Except he _grins_ at her and she. fucking. _melts_.

Cause yeah, she really likes his lips.

Like, she doesn't mean that in a dirty way, though (she recalls with a blush), _that_ she doesn't really mind all that much either.

No, it's… it's more to do with the shape of them. The lazy manner with which a smile curls crookedly about his lips first thing in the morning or the deviousness tilt of them when he's up to something mischievous and _maybe_ questionably legal. Even the way they turn downward into a frown when he's disapproving or resigned has her captivated.

More so when he opens them to form words like, _darling_ or _I love you_.

And she especially (more than) likes the look of them, coupled with the smooth and deep timbre of his voice, when they call her name.

Speaking of.

"Emma?"

…she really _should_ be paying attention to the words coming out of them right now. Still, she can't help but wonder if –

"Emma."

Her eyes snap from his mouth to his eyes then. "What?" she asks a little dazedly.

There's a hint of amusement in his eyes, probably from the breathlessness in her tone, but his brows are furrowed and, yup, _there it is_ , exquisite pink lips are slumped in concern.

She should tell him.

"I've been calling your name, love. Are you all right? You've been staring at me for nigh 10 minutes now." He palms the scruff on his jaw before licking at the corner of his lips and asking, teasingly, "is there something on my face?"

She blushes and stutters, "s-sorry," before clearing her throat and shaking her head (partly to answer that last question; mostly to clear the wayward images that float through her mind at the peek of his tongue) and saying, "I'm fine."

His eyes narrow in scrutiny.

"I'm _fine_." She reiterates in a stronger voice. "What were you saying?"

He gives her an unconvinced look, but thankfully, does not push. Instead, he picks his fork up from where he abandoned it by his half-eaten plate of roast beef and uses it to point at her own.

"I was just remarking that you've hardly touched your food," his frown deepens. "Is it not to your palate? I could whip up something else if you'd prefer–"

"No," she shakes her head vehemently. "No, that's totally unnecessary."

His eyebrow quirks in bewilderment, "Really, it's no trouble. Or if it's my cooking you've an issue with," he grins softly to let her know he's not offended, "we could always order in. The wonders of this realm and all."

"Seriously, Killian." She rolls her eyes. "I'm fi–"

"Honestly, Swan. If you say fine one more time, I shall be forced to silence you."

He says it jokingly and she knows he's teasing her but _damn_ if she doesn't feel her body temperature rise anyway.

Her eyes seem to disconnect from her brain then too, since they have taken it upon themselves to fixate on his lips and the way his teeth sink into the fullness of his bottom lip in anxiousness, leaving their marks.

Marks she very much wants to impress upon him with her own lips, in places that are _far_ from visible to the eye.

Unbeknownst to Killian of the thoughts running through her head, he takes her silence as cause for concern.

"Emma," he sighs, pushing his plate to the side and leaning forward. "You look flushed, love. And I don't even think I've seen you take anything more than coffee today. Aren't you hungry?"

She notes the unhappiness in his tone and thinks, _well_ _that's just got to go_.

So she takes his hand and tugs him to her till they are both standing.

"Maybe I am hungry," she says breathlessly once they are toe-to-toe and chest to chest, the line of his body nearly flushed against her own, with just enough space for her to reach down between them. "Just not for food."

"Oh?" He replies, voice equally soft as he realizes her intent, the reason behind the redness of her cheeks and the airy tone of her voice. His own gaze darkens as he zeroes in on her lips but still, he asks. "Then what _are_ you hungry for?"

She hums when his hand finds her hip.

"Three."

With dexterous fingers, she undoes the buckle on his belt with practiced ease as she whispers against his mouth.

"Guesses."

She unbuttons his pants and lowers his zip. His breathing hitches.

"What."

She doesn't know who dives in first, just knows that one minute they're breathing against each other and the next they're breathing into each other. Emma feels more than hears the vibration of Killian's groan against her chest when his arm winds around her waist to close the remaining distance between their bodies, and he slants his lips across hers.

Lips that quickly burn a path down the length of her body, cementing the end of their traditional dinner and the start of a more salacious feast.

They don't even make it to the bedroom.

And it isn't until later, as he hands her a mug of the hot chocolate he made just as she likes it (he never forgets the cinnamon),

–as he curls into her on their sofa,

–as he whispers, _you're amazing_ , against the skin of her neck,

–as he plants a kiss on the corner of her mouth, her chest,

–as he grins at her endearingly,

–as he plants a circle of kisses, just before laying his head, above the curve of her stomach – that she remembers what started all this in the first place.

God, why can't she just _tell him_?

Cause she's a coward, that's why.

Dragons? Come at her.

Curses? Pfft, old hat.

Realm jumping? Expert level.

Relatives from the crazy branch of the family tree showing up from the past or the future? Bitch, _please_.

Give her a crisis and it'll slide right off her back.

But give her a minute with her _feelings_ though and everything inside her goes to shit.

She may be done with running, but that doesn't necessarily mean she doesn't entertain thoughts of fleeing from time to time.

Like now, at night. _Especially_ now. When it's quiet and his breathing and her heartbeat aren't enough to drown the whispers of doubt in her mind that turn to echoes that turn to shouts – it's just something about the darkness that makes the voices in her head brave, turning her insecurities into a raging sea and she's helpless against the current as they take her back, back to the Swans, the countless, _pointless_ foster families that followed them, to before she knew about Ingrid, to Neal, to Walsh, to every person who has ever made her feel small, until all she wants is to escape herself.

But she's had darkness, _been_ darkness. She has True Love beating inside her, practically leaking out of her pores, and while the logical side of her acknowledges this and proudly waves the middle finger along with a giant 'FUCK YOU' banner at the voices in her head, still, old habits die hard even for the Savior.

Fucking _feelings_.

A few days later and she tells herself she'll try again in the morning, when she can see the light in her heart reflected in the light of his shining blue orbs; when she's free to feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her fingers or smell the musk of his skin without fear of disturbing his rest.

When the weight of his arm around her waist seems to be the only thing holding her to the ground, _anchoring_ her in the present and keeping her from drowning in her thoughts.

Everything inside her quiets. Everything inside her stills.

She should tell him.

But instead, she kisses those lips she's so fond of, licking at the dents he's left on his bottom lip before touching her tongue to his in a hot, wet slide and she loses herself to it, to _him_.

"You have to be quiet," he reminds her and she should be affronted at the implication that she can't keep her mouth shut but she's just too busy not caring. She merely nods and grinds her hips to his till _she's_ grinning smugly at him and reminding him the importance of being silent.

She resolves to do it during breakfast. Once she's had at least _two_ cups of coffee since rum is out of the question (it may be 5 o'clock somewhere but it most certainly is not at Storybrooke).

Killian is already downstairs, apron on and spatula in hand as he whips up an omelet and adds – she peeks over his shoulder.

"Herbs?"

He grins delightedly. "Picked them fresh from the garden just this morning."

She returns it, just as proud. "Smells amazing, babe."

She pecks his cheek then makes for the cupboard housing all their mugs. Her bravery begins to reach optimum levels and just as she thinks _hey, maybe I_ can _do this_ , she goes for the coffee pot.

Only to find there is no coffee, much less a coffee pot.

She looks up and down the length of their kitchen counter thinking that there must be some kind of mistake and Killian must have moved it. But it just confirms the worst of her suspicions.

There's no goddamn coffee _machine_.

"Where the hell is it, Killian?"

He glances at her quickly over his shoulder before returning his attention to the stove, oblivious to her rising ire. "Where's what, love?"

"The _coffee_."

"Oh," he replies, still none the wiser. "It was making such awful noises early in the morning the other day so I thought I'd get it serviced while you were at work. Still haven't heard from the blokes down at the appliance store, I'm afraid. Did I not tell you?"

His nonchalant movements infuriate her and her good mood evaporates immediately.

"No. You _did not tell me_ ," she confirms in a mockery of his accent. "What the hell, Killian! I've told you like, a million times – it's _supposed_ to make those sounds! It's fucking _grand_ when it makes those sounds, cause then it means it's working!" She leaves a trail of fire in her wake as she burns a hole through the floorboards with her agitated pacing. "Those 'blokes' down in the appliance store are either really fucking stupid for taking this long or, likely scenario, are taking advantage of your clueless ass and getting ready to charge you a ridiculous fee for 'services rendered' when they didn't do jack shit! What am I supposed to do now, huh? You _know_ I need coffee to function like a human being!"

"What's going on?"

It's that moment Henry makes his presence known and enters the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes as his jaw cracks with a mighty yawn.

She should feel bad, her uproar, coupled with the radio Killian's taken to cranking up in the morning in an effort to familiarize himself with modern music, must have woken him from his sleep – on a weekend no less, when he should be sleeping in. It's only 7am after all. But she's too wound to be apologetic and she's on a _roll_.

"What's going on? _What's going on?_ "she huffs as she whirls to face her son, who jolts wide-awake at her attention. He assesses the wide stance of her feet, her hands on her hips and the flare of her nostrils, and she sees the minute it clicks into place in his head that it would be in his best interest to remain utterly _silent_ and let his mom have at it till she's said her piece.

"Oh, I'll tell you what's going on. There is no _coffee_ in this entire household, _that's_ what's going on! And all cause your–"

She feels like her blood turns cold in her veins and so she freezes.

"Mom?" Henry's looking at her in concern now but it seems her vision's gone blurry, which is why she doesn't move before it's too late and Killian comes into her line of sight.

A siren goes off in her head, chanting for her to run.

"Emma?"

(run run run run)

" _Emma?_ " There's alarm in his voice now and still, the siren rings louder telling her–

Runrunrunrunrunrun _run_.

So she does, ignoring the cries of her son and her partner in favor of letting the familiar sound of her feet hitting the pavement drown everything, even her thoughts, out.

She doesn't get far, though.

Ironic, since before Storybrooke, before Henry, she'd been an excellent runner – hell, she'd been an Olympic _sprinter_ , gold medal and everything. That was then, of course. Use it or lose it, and all that.

Which is probably why David finds her less than 30 minutes after she's left the house, pathetically sat by the toilet of the sheriff's station still in her pajamas, with her hair in disarray and her feet dirty and bare.

She glares up at him because she wants to be upset, no one ever just leaves her alone in this town, _Christ_.

But she's pretty sure she just looks like she's squinting at him so it falls flat. She's simply too tired, too sad, too _relieved_ , to be upset.

(She's been left alone long enough)

So she doesn't protest when he places a pair of slippers by her feet and a jacket atop her shoulders.

"Search party?" She croaks. She means to say more like, _did he call for the entire brigade_ , but her throat is still scratchy from projectile vomiting practically nothing. Besides, he gets what she's saying anyway.

"Nah," he momentarily leaves the bathroom to retrieve a cup that he fills with water from the sink, which she takes gratefully when he hands it to her. "Just me."

He takes a seat beside her and she wants to suggest that a) this is totally unsanitary and gross and b) they should probably get up off the floor. But she's not entirely sure if her stomach agrees with that evaluation nor does she think her legs can support her anyway so she stays still.

 _Just me_.

Even when she's screwed up, Killian's still looking out for her.

She doesn't even realize she's crying till David catches one of her tears. She looks up at him, at the grim look on his face, wondering if, no, _when_ he'll ask and dreading the moment he does.

"Should I get my gun?"

The words are… not what she expected. She's used to the prodding from Snow, the reassuring touches and the all too flowery hope speeches. She's not complaining, it's great for the sparse wastelands of the Enchanted Forest or the heated jungles of Neverland, it gets the job done and yeah, Emma admits even if it's just to herself, she needs the push sometimes.

Not right now though. She's got her mother's looks and pluck but she's every bit her father's daughter, too.

So she laughs, great, heaving, chunks of chortles that reverberate around the tiles and ring in her ears. She laughs and she laughs till she doesn't, till they dissolve into great, heaving, sobs that wrack her body and steal her breath.

She can feel herself falling but doesn't have the strength to catch herself, which turns out to be okay because her father does it for her, strong arms wrapped around her in a reassuring embrace.

It makes her cry harder.

She weeps till the tremors stop and she feels wrung out. But even then, tears leak from her eyes in quiet rivulets resembling waterfalls and all throughout, her father says nothing. Simply holds her in a way she imagines he would have, had she grown up as a princess in the Enchanted Forest and time hadn't been robbed from them.

She clings back just as tightly, like she's always wanted to do every time she looked upon a foster father and prayed that his family would be the one to bring her home.

"Dad," she whispers.

He squeezes her shoulder encouragingly. "Yeah?"

"I screwed up."

He smiles down softly at her. "I don't believe that."

She shakes her head. "You don't know what I've done." _Or haven't done_ , her mind ever so helpfully supplies for her.

"I don't need to," he holds her tighter. "I have faith that you'll do the right thing."

"What if I don't know what that is?" She whispers.

He chuckles. "You're the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming. You do." She does. "And if you don't well then, that's alright too. You know where to find your mom and me and if we still can't figure it out, you've got Henry and Hook, Regina. Hell, this entire _town_ is with you, Emma. Or," he pulls a face, "the sane part at least." That rouses a round of giggles from both of them.

But with a sobering sigh, he continues. "Point is, you don't need to have all the answers, Emma. _No one_ does, so why on earth should we expect you to? Whatever you can't figure out, we'll sure as hell do our best to connect the rest of the pieces and even better, we'll be _happy_ to. After all, this family has always been stronger _together._ " He pauses. "And it's only getting bigger."

She doesn't seem to notice, her mind drifting. "Killian…"

"What about him? I wasn't entirely kidding when I asked about the gun…"

She raises her head to punch him on the chest. "Dad!"

He raises his hands in surrender. "Fine, fine." Unperturbed, he declares, "But as a father, I have _rights_ and I demand to use those rights whenever I see fit. This is nonnegotiable, young lady."

"There's no need for a gun this time, dad." _At least, I don't_ think _so_ , she muses as she lays her head back on his shoulder.

She lets out a long breath. "Killian… isn't… Henry's dad."

"No. No, he isn't."

"But…"

Silence descends upon them as they remember the man who sacrificed himself to right a grievous error; the first man she ever loved and with whom she shared a child.

So no, Killian is not Henry's father. That title will always and forever belong to Neal, just as it should.

"But he'd make a great one, wouldn't he?"

Emma's head instantly snaps to him. " _What?_ "

He levels her with a serious look. "It's not a crime, Emma, to want Henry to have a proper father figure. Neal certainly wouldn't begrudge you the home, the _family_ you've built with Killian, especially when the man has been nothing but supportive towards Henry and your relationship with him.

"Neal loved Henry and he loved _you_. More than anything, I fully believe he'd want you to have the best life could offer."

A dream (or maybe a memory?) sparks at the recesses of her mind – an abandoned carnival, a whispered conversation at the front seat of her bug, a kiss to her forehead and the words, _I love you Emma_.

Whatever errors in judgment he may have made in his long lifetime, there were three things he got right, at least. One was giving her a beautiful, brilliant boy – now fast becoming a wise and kind-hearted man – two was the name of her brother and therefore giving him someone he could look up to.

Three was loving her, loving her _enough_ , to encourage her to find Tallahassee with someone else.

"I should tell him." She says to him, even if she's sure he's unaware of what she really means.

But the way he answers – a little _too_ excitable, _too_ eager and agreeable to be anything except polite agreement – "you should," accompanied by his smile, a perplexing combination of smug and comforting, has her thinking otherwise.

"Let me guess… mom?"

Her father's smile merely broadens as he leans in to give her one last hug. "Tell him."

David offers to give her a ride back to her house and as much as she appreciates the steady strength her father has provided her, she needs a moment to herself.

There are just some things she has, and will always choose, to do alone – such as getting ready for, what is sure to be, an emotional rollercoaster of a conversation.

(She hasn't even gotten in yet and she already feels like throwing up. Nerves, y'know?)

(Then again, it might just be her wanting to puke her guts out again)

(It's the latter, _definitely_ )

When Emma reaches the door she takes a deep breath in an effort to calm herself, counting to four as she inhales, then exhales for a good eight seconds. She gives herself ten more counts before turning the doorknob and crossing the threshold into their home.

She tries to enter quietly and for the most part succeeds, because the radio is turned up a notch – a different station from the one this morning that still plays modern songs but with a more mellow vibe than the usual pop, EDM tunes that takes Killian more than a little effort to familiarize himself with. These songs she knows he enjoys.

She loves every moment with him, but in her mental box of mementos, these are the ones she cherishes the most – when his guard is down and he allows ease to fill his body, his movements small and light yet, even with his back turned, so transparent with his happiness and contentment if the way he rolls his shoulders and shuffles his feet as he hums with the music is any indication.

She means to give him a few more seconds of peace before she upends his world but she's barely taken a step into the kitchen when his head jerks and he swivels towards her, as if a string exists between them and he felt her tug.

"Swan," his face lights up in excitement and relief. The sight of it makes guilt gnaw at her stomach.

(At least she thinksit's guilt. _Now is_ not _the time to hurl stomach acid at one of your True Loves, Emma_ )

"Killian," she breathes and despite herself, a smile blooms on her face. "Hi."

He grins from across the room and then before she can even recover from the sight of it, he's _there_ , arm circling her waist, hand tangled in her hair and his face buried in the crook of her neck so that she can feel the outline of his smile across her skin.

She's so overwhelmed by the warmth of his embrace, ready as she was for his well-deserved wrath or _worse_ his disappointment, that she begins to cry.

 _Christ, again? Really?_

He doesn't say anything, seemingly unperturbed by her (initial _and_ current) outbursts. He doesn't even ask her what brought on the waterworks, which should confuse her.

As it stands, she just feels grateful for the reprieve as it gives her a moment to gather her thoughts. How do you tell someone that you're about to change their entire world, _more so than you already have?_

She knows that her family is not normal, that their problems extend beyond the usual petty rivalry and/or inheritance feuds that most families go through. Loving her was never easy, even before she found out the truth of her heritage – if anything, it used to make her even jumpier, always one foot out the door.

(With Henry – her adventurous, sweet, wonderful son – holding her, drawing her in, with the other)

She knows her family loves her, would do anything for her, and that includes Killian. Yet she cannot seem to shake the 28-year habit of asking herself, _is this what's gonna push him out for good?_

His hand has moved from her hair and is now rubbing circles at the small of her back, the motion so soothing that it makes her cry even harder while simultaneously relaxing her – his thumb and his fingers running light spirals across her back that has her heart, despite her tears, calming gradually.

When the last of the tremors ultimately leave her body to make room for her courage, she murmurs into the crook of his shoulder.

"I'm pregnant," she sighs, her tone garbled.

He hums back, continuing his tender touches, his voice just as delicate. "I know."

"I should have told you sooner," she sobs, tightening her grip on his jacket because she doesn't want him to drift from her. "But I was _so_ scared, which is stupid, right? We're living together and we're _True Love_ for fuck's sake. And I know you love Henry but it's just that we've never talked about kids of our own or whether it was something you wanted and–"

–and her mind finally comprehends his response.

"Wait," she pulls back a scant few inches to see his face, her eyes wide and alight with realization. "You knew?"

 _("Is it not to your palate?"_ – _frequent kisses to her stomach_ – _herbs in her omelet when it should have been just the usual scrambled eggs_ – _the_ coffee _, Christ, the coffee!)_

He gives her a small smile, though his teeth bite down on his lower lip as if to contain the gargantuan grin his lips actually want to settle in. It pretty much confirms it.

"You _knew_!" She gasps, "wait–" then she gives him a good smack on his shoulder blades with both her hands.

Killian yelps, moving his hand to her waist to steady himself. "If you knew, why didn't you say anything?" She screeches.

"Well at first it was because I didn't want to hope, in case I was wrong. But once it was undeniable to me, I realized it was because you needed time. I knew you weren't ready for me to know. Still, I had faith in you. _Have_ faith in you." He accompanies this with a shrug, as if it isn't a _big fucking deal_. "You'd tell me when you were good and ready," he smiles softly at her, tucking a stray strand behind her ear, "and you did."

 _Well shit_.

"I don't deserve you," she sniffles.

He chuckles, running his nose along the bridge of hers affectionately. "On the contrary my dear, it is I who doesn't deserve you."

She shakes her head in disbelief. She seriously doubts that but lets it slide for the time being to ask, " _how_ did you know?"

"Darling," he purrs, "you don't live to be 300 years old and not learn a thing or two about a woman's body, a subject which I," and here he gives her a wicked smirk, "happen to particularly _excel_ at."

She rolls her eyes, though she is glad for the levity. The moment is short-lived however, when she dares to ask the question that has plagued her from the beginning.

"You're not mad?" She whispers. He doesn't answer right away and the silence drives her mad enough to start rambling. "Because what I said before… it's all true, isn't it? It's not like we've ever discussed the possibility of having more kids. I mean, we've only _just_ started living together! And what with this villain and that curse and _Leroy_ it's not like we've had a lot of time for, you know, _that_ even though that's what I'd rather be doing with you," she blushes at her candor. "I'm actually real good about protection but I guess, I mean, those things aren't always 100 percent. Like, _I_ should know more than anyone right? Once is all it takes and…"

 _And shouldn't you be saying something by now?_ is what she means to add. Except his arm finds itself around the circle of her waist once more and his hand takes a hold of hers, twining their fingers and bringing it to his chest. He does it all so gently, so quietly, a hint of sensually to his actions that has more to do with reassuring her than actually seducing her, that she doesn't notice till they're swaying to the smooth rhythms emanating from the radio.

He hums, the rumble of his voice running through her chest, making her tighten her grip on his shoulder at the sudden want that courses through her. She longs to see his face but he keeps his grip on her firm, not enough to trap her, but enough for her to sense that there is something he wants to share but can't quite look at her as he does so.

The exercise in patience is excruciating, but her efforts are rewarded when soon enough, he begins.

And what he says shakes her to her core.

"Milah was pregnant, did you know that?" It's rhetorical, of course, so she says nothing. Merely lets go of his hand to wind her arms around his neck, an instinctual part of her having an idea as to where this road is going, knowing what it's costing him to relive such memories.

She stops their dancing. "Killian, you don't–"

"I know, love. But I _need_ to. If I don't then…" he tightens his grip on her waist and she feels him gulp heavily. "Do you understand?"

She does. No one should be as weighed down by the burden of their past as he is and she feels incredibly honored to have him share it with her. So she simply nods against him and places her forehead to his cheek so that their shoulders touch, ready to bear his sorrows and his troubles with him.

He continues after a deep breath.

"I was bloody terrified, when she told me. But it seemed rather inconsequential compared to the total ecstasy I felt at the news. I was to be a _father_ ," she feels him smile, fondly, she imagines. Something so pure and sweet that she can't help but smile as well, "and I was damn well going to be a better one than my own father ever was to Liam and me. I looked upon it, upon the life growing inside Milah, as a chance to finally make something out of my own life. The endless, fruitful possibilities for our future stretched ahead of me. I was seeing so far ahead..." his face falls. "I nearly missed what was right in front of me.

"Milah was… less than enthusiastic as I was. For one, she had concerns about her age, whether her body was strong enough to carry full term. She considered, very briefly, ending the pregnancy; and while I would have supported her decision – I had no right to tell her what to do with her body after all – still, a part of me hoped she'd change her mind.

"Ultimately, she couldn't bring herself to do it. You couldn't imagine my relief, Swan. All I could think was, I was going to be a father," he repeats, the wonder and awe so prominent in his voice even after all these years. "I could sense she was still morose though, following her decision. The unhappiness seemed permanently settled on her face and it weighed her down, to the point that she wouldn't even leave our bed. I tried all that I could to get her to reveal to me her sorrow – I didn't know then, the value of silence or the delicate balance between when to push and when to pull – I only discovered what it was that plagued her by pure chance because her sobs were loud enough to wake me one night, otherwise she would not have ever revealed herself to me.

"I stumbled upon her, fingers stained and charcoal strewn across the desk, a picture of a boy clumsily sketched upon a spare piece of parchment. 'I can't remember what he looks like,' she cried to me. And she lamented that even if she did, he would have grown by now. I realized then, that she was talking about your Neal, about _Baelfire_ , and how wracked she was with guilt to be starting this new life with me, with a child of our own, when she so easily left another behind.

"I was so blind by my love for her, I truly could not discern the signs. She was always so quick to brush that part of her life off and I along with her, intent as I was at cementing my place in her life after having witnessed the cowardice of her husband. But the remorse chained her to her old life, unable to fully settle into the one she found with me. So the next day we were bound for the port where it all began. I wanted so very much to keep her to me, you see? I was willing to do anything." He sighs, the regret heavy on his breath as she feels him lay his cheek on top of her head.

"We would have been fine, were it not for the attack on our ship." His voice turns waspish as he vehemently declares, "I was a fool, Emma. A _bloody_ fool. The bounty on my head was so high, I'd been evading capture for years and still I sought to tempt fate. I thought…" She can feel him start to shake against her so she tightens her embrace, hoping he finds strength in her touch though she feels helpless against the deluge of feelings and memories that seem to come to him all at once. "I thought, with a child along the way, a little extra coin wouldn't hurt us. I planned on finding us a little house by the sea where we could plant some roots and grow our family.

"Gods, I was _so_ arrogant." He lets go of her waist and that's when she feels the droplets that fall on her shoulder. He swipes at his eyes and _she_ feels herself break, his pain reverberating through her soul, calling out for her to soothe him but not knowing how and it _hurts_. _He's_ hurt. "We had chartered those waters before, as it was a trade route we had chosen to sail through so I didn't even think to check and in my complacency…" He shakes his head, like he _still_ can't believe what had happened then. "It was no merchant ship we were raiding, Swan. It was a bloody _warship._

"The Jolly is fast, yes. But by the time I realized my error, it was too late to outrun them. They were boarding us and we had no choice but to fight, or risk being sunk or worse, killed. Milah refused to back down, though I didn't expect anything less. Said she wouldn't let some 'royal-arse-sniffing, white-collared, limey' step into her home and wreck it without a fight." He smiles, but it's sad. Broken. "In the ensuing chaos, I lost sight of her. Though that was not the only thing I lost that day."

" _Kilian,_ " she cries.

"I killed their Captain. And normally I'd offer the remaining men the choice to either take their own lives or join my crew, but my orders were to skewer every last one that remained then burn that bloody ship till it was nothing but char and ash. I wanted everyone to know that those who dared to cross me would not survive. _No one_ takes from Captain Killian Jones. The ship burned for so long, I heard. The smoke so thick it reached neighboring ports and fogged villages for days that people could not work for they could not see through the haze. And I know now how wrong it was but at the time, I didn't care. It was a small consolation for what I truly felt.

"We lost the babe, Emma."

His voice had faded into something that's just above a whisper, but magnanimous in its melancholy. They're both trembling now, the music long forgotten as his last words echo around them.

"It was my fault," he whispers, and she shakes her head. "No, _no_ –"

"S'alright," he murmurs as he runs his hand up and down her back in a twisted attempt to comfort her. "Milah said so too but I knew it. I _knew_. And I should have stopped then… Milah was devastated and she needed me to be her strength, _we_ needed to be each other's strength, but I was inconsolable and consumed with grief. I was determined to make us whole and was convinced that bringing Baelfire on board would be the balm to soothe our loss. She agreed, just as empty as I was and hungry for something, anything to fill that void in our hearts, so we continued on our path.

"You know the rest, of course… Then when Bae fell into my ship I truly thought it was fate giving me a second chance. But two wrongs don't make a right, a ship is no place to raise a child and a pirate is not fit to be a father. So you see, love?"

He retracts from their embrace just enough to be able to look her in the eyes.

"I never spoke of children with you because I didn't think I deserved them. Even my relationship with Henry is nothing short of a miracle in my eyes because I believed wholeheartedly that life had dealt me it's final hand at the opportunity. Yet, here you are, you've given me love, allowed me to be a part of Henry's life, you're with _our_ child and I–"

Tears stream down his face in earnest now, surely mirroring the torrent that leaks from her eyes. The sadness is there, lingering in both of them which she expects, after everything he just told her. But more than that, is the grin that finally settles on his lips as she cups his cheeks to frame the expression, letting her know that even after everything, they'll be okay.

 _They are stronger together_ , her father's words sound across her mind.

He chuckles, enveloping one of her hands with his own. "So to answer your question, my love. No," his grin widens, if possible. "No, I'm not mad. In fact, I'm far from it. So, very, _very_ far."

"I love you." She shakes her head. "I love you _so goddamn_ much."

"And I you," he replies breathlessly before hauling her onto him and kissing her, sloppily, happily, hungrily, fearfully, passionately, tenderly and everything in between.

And then they're laughing even as they're crying and Killian takes her into his arms as they dance to the music, making a mess of the place as they bump into chairs and knock over ingredients and exchange kisses.

They resolve to tell Henry first once he's back from his walk, Emma not wanting to hide her pregnancy any longer than she already has. Killian expresses his concerns about how the news would affect him, but she knows her boy; knows how he's got more love in his pinky than most people could hope to embody in a lifetime, knows the light and the warmth that he carries in his heart, sees it especially when she strokes his hair and he still leans into her touch as she says, "so how would you feel about becoming a big brother?" and all he does is fling himself, long and awkward limbs and all, towards the both of them, wrapping them in a hug as he rambles on about _what took you so long?_ and _I've only been waiting since you moved in, why do you think I chose this house?_

When Henry asks if his grandparents know, Emma replies "yes" at the same time Killian answers "no" and that is how she recounts the story of where she'd been that morning and how David is the one to find her, in the Sheriff's Station's toilet of all places.

Apparently the men in her family have a pregnancy-radar or something because her dad figured it out all on his own. The only reason she knows this is because by the time they emerge from their house to go scavenge some breakfast at Granny's, every townsfolk they encounter congratulates her and this is how she finds out that her father spilled the beans to her mother.

It's alright because she's all too happy to share the news, surrounded as they are by well-wishers at their booth in the diner. Her parents join them soon after, followed by Regina and it is here, surrounded by her family, cocooned by their love, that she banishes the doubtful voices in her head with a resounding finality.

Because in an explosion of clarity, she realizes that without even looking, she's built a home here – has planted her feet and grown some roots, roots that have only strengthened with every connection she makes with her family, with every relationship she builds in this town and isn't that something?

The lost girl isn't so lost after all.

Later that night, when the town has settled enough to let them go, when they've gone home and they've all retired to their rooms, Killian settles into the cradle of her thighs so that he's free to plant butterfly kisses onto her stomach, a habit she only now notices he's taken to doing even before the slightly noticeable bump to her stomach.

She giggles when his lips find a particularly sensitive spot. He smiles up at her.

"I guess I was just a tad wrong," he muses.

She runs a hand through his hair. "What do you mean?"

"Well, looking back… just as Milah accepted her pregnancy, we lost the baby and after, as I accepted a life with Bae, I lost Milah then I lost him too." She strokes the scar on his cheek a little sadly, but he continues to smile encouragingly at her. "I've been ready to be a father for the longest time, but the moment kept evading me and so I thought, _it simply isn't ready for me,_ and perhaps it never would be. But it's not that it wouldn't ever be ready for me. It rather turns out that," and here shakes his head in amazement, "it was just waiting for _you_."

He sighs, a blissful thing. "My True Love."

She bites her lip at the fluttering of her heart. "You are going to be a _wonderful_ father." She entwines their fingers. "You already are."

He brings their woven fingers to his lips (oh his lips his lips his _lips_ ) to plant kisses along her knuckles to a trail of kisses up her arm, her shoulder, her neck, the corner of her mouth till finally, to her own lips where she can taste his joy – it's all the thanks she needs.

When they're tangled up in each other, her back to his front, their sock-clad feet touching under the covers and their hands secured against her heart, she wonders, "We can do this. Right?"

"I'm certain, love, as long as we're together."

"Sweet," she comments before pausing.

"Does this mean you'll bring back the coffee machine?"

He barks out an unexpected laugh, jostling her body but making her smile anyway. "Not a chance, Swan."

She shrugs and then pouts, even if he can't see but imagines he can sense it anyway when she grumbles, "Worth a shot."

He chuckles before pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Thank you for telling me, Emma. You've given me a precious gift."

 _This man,_ she thinks incredulously.

(Remind her again, why she was ever so scared?)

"Maybe you shouldn't thank me just yet." She jokes as she sifts through the fake memories in her head of raising Henry, the sleepless nights, the endless diaper changes and the heaps of laundry that await them. "Buckle up, Jones. There's gonna be one hell of an adventure looming ahead of us."

"And what is life, but one great adventure after another?" he murmurs sleepily, the day's events catching up to him. "With you, I can conquer anything."

She smiles to herself at the words, proud for finally mustering up the courage to tell him and incredibly thankful for his love and understanding and for the truth that ring in his words.

"Yeah," she nods. "Yeah, me too."

 _(And oh how they conquered, because three crazy related villains, eight months and 22 hours of excruciating labor and a nearly broken hand later, Charles David Jones was born._

 _But it was worth it, god was it_ all _worth it, when their little boy greeted them with bright blue eyes that were an exact replica of his father's._

 _And it was only the beginning._

 _For what an adventure, the rest of their lives turned out to be indeed.)_

* * *

 **AN:** **Title taken from the song of the same name in The Dust Storm. Ironic that I watched that movie for Colin but ended up loving THIS song, the only original he didn't sing in haha. I'm so obsessed with the song, it's not even funny.**

 **But ALSO related to the airship because the Hindenburg event marked the end of airship travel. I wanted Emma's pregnancy to be the event that would make her realize that she really doesn't want to run anymore.**

 **Well, this story was meant to be light and fluffy but as usual, it ran away from me. Hope you enjoyed it anyway!**


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